


Secrets I have held in my heart (I just wanna be yours)

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voice Kink, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is how it will go,” Harold says conversationally. “I won’t touch you, I won’t kiss you, in fact I won’t do anything to you at all. I’ll just sit here,” he says, letting himself sink against the upholstery, “and enjoy the view.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets I have held in my heart (I just wanna be yours)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to nightwolf for support & advice with porny headcanons, and Sky for always noticing the little details. <3
> 
> Title from “I Wanna Be Yours” by the Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> The lovely [villainny](http://villainny.tumblr.com/) recorded a [podfic](http://www.mediafire.com/listen/m33ig4buhcl2z32/secrets_I_have_held_in_my_heart.mp3) of this story!

“Takeout will be cold by the time--“ Harold starts, except then John kisses him, one hand cupping his jaw, the other one sliding into his hair, and suddenly Harold couldn’t care less about the food.

They don’t make it all the way to the bedroom:

Harold is half-lying on the couch with John on top of him, kissing and licking his neck where he has opened two buttons on Harold’s shirt and pulled off his tie.

Harold lets himself sink back against the cushions so his back is supported by the couch, dragging John down and against him by his collar, John straddling him, carefully balancing his weight on Harold’s good leg.

It’s intoxicating, to have John in his hands like this, and Harold scoots a little so John can slide all the way into his lap, long limbs folded around him.

It’s still new, this thing between them, and Harold is greedy for all of it:

Kissing and moving against each other, the slide of skin on skin, every little noise that he can draw from John, every soft chuckle against his throat.

John just _melts_ against him, warm and content, his hands beneath the layers of Harold’s suits, unbuttoning his waistcoat, stroking over his chest.

“Harold,” John says against his throat, “tell me what to do, tell me -- tell me what you want me to do.”

This, too, is something precious, the way John will let him set the pace, let Harold direct him.

The way John gives himself over so completely.

At first, Harold had been reluctant to use commands - this was about what John wanted and needed, too, how could he _order_ him to do something? -, but there was something in John’s eyes that was begging him to understand:

 _Please, I need this_ , and the way John had squeezed his thigh in silent approval the first time Harold had asked him to go to his knees. 

“Hands behind your back,” Harold whispers, and John moves instantly, taking his hands away and gripping his own wrist behind his back.

Harold takes his time exploring, slowly unbuttoning the first buttons on John’s shirt and letting his hand slip inside, running his fingers over warm, smooth skin.

He puts a hand against the back of John’s head and pulls him down so he can kiss the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, his forehead, his hands stroking through John’s hair, down his neck.

John sighs against him, swaying a little where he can’t use his hands to keep his balance.

He leans in again to press his lips against Harold’s neck, the part of his throat that is exposed by his open shirt collar, and when Harold runs his hands over John’s arms, he can feel the tension in them.

“What is it, John?” Harold asks softly, and John nuzzles his throat just beneath the line of his jaw.

“Wanna touch you,” John mutters against Harold’s bare skin, his hips moving wantonly against Harold’s leg.

“Do you now,” Harold says, considering, his fingers under John’s jaw, studying his face.

“Sit on the end of the couch,” Harold says, and John gives a little whimper of protest when he slides out of Harold’s lap.

“Would you please kneel for me, John,” Harold says, and John’s eyelids _flutter_ at the sound of his voice.

John kneels on the soft cushions of the couch, his shirt falling open where Harold has undone the buttons. He keeps his hands on his back without being told, and Harold moves closer so he can rest the palm of his hand against John’s cheek for a moment.

John leans into the touch, his eyes falling shut.

The skin of his throat is flushed, his hair mussed up where Harold ran his fingers through it.

Harold takes it all in:

The line of John’s mouth, his long dark lashes, the powerful muscles of his shoulders moving beneath his shirt.

“God, you’re stunning,” Harold says, in a hushed tone, and John makes a little sound and opens his eyes again.

Harold reaches for John’s belt, brushing the line of John’s erection in his pants with the back of his hand.

John draws in a sharp breath but stays perfectly still.

Harold opens the belt and pulls it free, considering the sturdy leather.

“Your wrists, please,” he says, and John’s breathing quickens instantly.

He holds out his hands, palms up, and lets Harold loop the leather belt around them. It’s not a tight fit, one that would probably barely restrict his movement, but John understands the _command_ in it.

Harold leans back to look at his handiwork.

Then he moves away from John, just out of reach, and John clenches his hands into fists where they are bound in front of his body.

Harold loosens his tie and pulls it off, his collar falling open where John has unbuttoned it.

“This is how it will go,” Harold says conversationally. “I won’t touch you, I won’t kiss you, in fact I won’t do anything to you at all. I’ll just sit here,” he says, letting himself sink against the upholstery, “and enjoy the view.”

John watches him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Harold lets his silk tie slide between his fingers, unbuttoning his shirt all the way. He makes sure that every button takes an eternity, keeps every move torturously slow.

“Harold,” John says, cock straining against the fabric of his pants.

“Yes, John?” Harold asks innocently.

Harold has started to run the back of his hand over his crotch, gaze fixed on John’s face, his throat, and the skin of John’s throat is flushed, glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

“I could help you out with that,” John says, looking up from under his lashes.

Harold raises an eloquent eyebrow.

“I think I can manage without you, _Mr. Reese_ ,” he says, and John can’t help the groan that escapes his lips.

The corner of Harold’s mouth twitches involuntarily.

He unbuttons his pants, takes his erect cock out, and John draws in a sharp breath and bites his lip.

“I have always had the theory that you rather enjoyed that form of address,” Harold says thoughtfully, his gaze wandering from the hollow of John’s throat down to his chest. “I would like to find out how desperate I can get you over the earpiece, with miles of distance between us, just my voice in your ear.”

“Or you could come over here and let me _touch_ you,” John says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’d make it worth your while.”

“You certainly would,” Harold allows.

He is stroking himself leisurely, his thumb circling the head of his cock on every upstroke.

John keeps swallowing convulsively, mouth probably so dry that it sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“You’re always so eager to please, John,” Harold says, and John whimpers, his cock twitching in his pants. “You always want to be so good for me.”

 

\--

 

John closes his eyes and lets the sound of Harold’s voice wash over him.

He has to concentrate not to _move -_ push his hips forward for the slide of fabric against his aching cock, give in to temptation and just touch his fever-hot skin.

There’s a slight tremor in his hands where he’s holding them up in front of him, still bound with his own belt. It would be easy, so easy to slip out of it, shove his hand down his pants and take himself in hand, but Harold has given him _orders_.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold says, voice silky-smooth, and it nearly feels like a caress. “I could take you apart without touching you. I could tell you all of the things I will do to you, in the privacy of this apartment, when I’m more than a voice in your ear.”

The shiver runs from John’s neck all the way down his spine.

John opens his eyes again, and oh, Harold is a sight for sore eyes:

His hand curled leisurely around his own cock, stroking in precise, rhythmic strokes, Harold’s chest rising and falling evenly. He has taken off his glasses, the blue of his eyes startling and intense, and John feels like he is going to fall apart inside.

“Please,” he manages, swallowing, “please, Harold, god --“

Harold looks at him with a curious expression, his cheeks flushed, his hips shifting against where he has a firm grip on his erection. He doesn’t seem in any hurry, much unlike the way he usually thrusts impatiently into John’s hand.

“I enjoy watching you a lot,” Harold says, voice dropping low, and John’s entire body shakes with it. “Sometimes, when I see you on grainy security footage - a profile, your turned back, the way you cross a street - I just let myself watch for a moment, take you in.”

John makes a needy little sound low in his throat. He’so hard he can barely stand it, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. 

“You can’t imagine how much discipline it takes, sometimes - when all I want to do is to bend you over a desk or go down on you, for example, and we’re still somewhere with other people around or you’re out there on the streets. It makes it almost impossible for me to _concentrate_ \--“

Harold licks his lips, smoothing his palm over the glans, working himself almost absently with his gaze still firmly trained on John.

John can feel the shivery-hot feeling building at the center of his spine, his muscles tense enough that it feels like they might snap. 

“And it would be indiscreet, wouldn’t it, to just take you whenever I feel like it, to bite a mark into your neck to show that you’re _mine_ \--“

John’s sudden orgasm hits him with enough force that his knees go weak. He comes messily into his own pants, shuddering violently, the restraints still on his wrists.

Harold draws in a sharp breath and speeds up his movements, throws his head back and sighs, spilling over his hand.

John lies there slumped over, completely boneless, when Harold crawls over to take the belt off his wrists, place soft kisses against John’s temples, his forehead.

“Are you alright, John?” Harold asks, stroking John’s shoulders where he kept them tensed up the whole time.

John chuckles against Harold’s chest.

“I’m more than alright, actually,” he says, the skin around his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Can I touch you again?”

“God, yes, John, anything you want,” Harold groans, and John shivers wonderfully when he realizes that it wasn’t just difficult for _him_ , that Harold was as affected by their little game as he was.

“You have a really nice voice,” John mumbles, and Harold laughs and pets John’s head.

“If you say so, John,” Harold says, and then inhales sharply, because John has bent down into his lap to lick the stripes of come from Harold’s softening cock.

Harold’s hands tense in John’s hair, and he looks down and mumbles “ _Christ_ ”, before drawing John back up again and kissing him fiercely, possessively.

“Can we talk about the biting again at some point?” John murmurs against Harold’s lips. “I think I might like that.”

Harold cradles John’s head in his hand, feels John’s pulse thrumming against his fingertips.

“Maybe somewhere less obvious than the throat,” Harold suggests, and unbuttons John’s shirt to find a suitable compromise.

 

\-- fin


End file.
